


Nothing Will Keep Us Together

by MarauderCracker



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: First Times, Gen, Thieves!AU, Warning: I really don't understand ASL so there's a lot of vagueness, mild violence (nothing worse than canon), no magical bullshit (hence: Clint hasn't died)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 20:27:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2520728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarauderCracker/pseuds/MarauderCracker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are terrible for each other and,  yes, they are a disaster. They're a terrible combination of all of the other's worst flaws and the most unfortunate coincidences. (Really, who would trust a thief?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> This was once a romantic fic and now it's a platonic fic because I got my shit together. They still kiss one time, for strictly criminal reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited 29/03/2015

She zips up her hoodie, ties up the bandanna at the back of her head and pulls it up so it covers her mouth. Before stepping out of the alley, she pulls up the hood. Kate's just a dark silhouette as she crosses the street at a careful pace, fast but making sure to stay away from the lights and not make too much noise with her boots.

The short, strong heels catch easily on the fence as she climbs it, and her gloved fingers dig a little in the grass when she drops at the other side. She stays crouched for a second, looks around with sharp eyes. Nothing moves. She stands slowly, and glances up the building. She locates the cameras and sensors, squinting a little to see clearly in the moonlight. Once Kate's sure of how to go about this, she starts walking.

She's only taken a dozen steps when she hears the quiet shuffle of clothes against clothes and a slow-paced walking. She hunches behind a sign ('Laboratory; Level 3; Authorized Personnel Only') and tries to blend with the shadows.

A man in uniform walks past her hiding spot without noticing her, obviously a security guard. His back is not as straight as one would expect from the security in a millionary facility as this, his face seems scruffy in the moonlight. Kate smiles to herself. Getting the lazy security guard is one of the best lucky strikes a thief could ask for. She wants to throw up a fist and cheer. Instead, she promises herself to cheer a lot after she's done, and remains calm and collected. The guard takes a turn around the building, disappearing out of Kate's sight, and she makes a run for it.

As she runs, she reaches behind her and frees the bow from its holder. By the time she reaches the building's base, she's got an arrow between her deft fingers and is pointing it towards the sky.

It's a carefully calculated angle, just right for the hook-arrow to cling to the wall. The rope hanging from it barely brushes Kate's head, but she takes a small jump and reaches for it. With the bow precariously held in one hand, she lifts herself up until she can secure the rope around her ankle.

Making it to the window is easy. She makes sure to pull the rope up with her as she climbs, and quickly detaches it, pockets it as soon as she's able to make footing on the window-frame. She looks down, dark eyes digging into the shadows as she tries to spot any more guards. Nothing moves. There is a voice in the back of her head that whines loudly and complains because 'Why won't anyone show up and try to stop me? I need a fight.'

"Don't be a dumbass, Bishop," her more coherent inner voice says. Kate sighs deeply and dramatically, and both inner voices tell her to stop being such a drama queen.

"A'ight," she mutters to herself, in a half-assed attempt to focus. She makes sure the bow is safely held to her back, readjusts the fabric over her mouth to make sure her face is as covered as possible. Then, she takes two of the bobby pins from her hair and starts working on unlocking the window.

It takes a couple minutes, even though her bobby pins are actually some of the most high-tech lock picks out there. At least, that's what David said when he offered them. Kate is more than a little skeptical, but who's going to complain about free toys? Kate doesn't complain about anything when it's free. She's not picky anymore.

She holds the pressure sensor down with her elbow as she slides in, manages to keep her weight on it long enough to close the window again without triggering any alarms. David might be a little weird and take too many pills for his 'migraines' (Kate's skeptical about that detail too) but he sure knows his way around any alarm system. Kate's glad to have him on her team. Or, you know, blurry circle of acquaintances, allies and people who owe her favors. Whatever.

She keeps her back to the wall as she slowly circles the room. It's a shitty ass office with too many coffee stains on the desk, so Kate doubts that the security here will be too tough to beat. Then again, you can never trust people who do illegal medical research on homeless teenagers to follow logical thought patterns.

Opening the door would be an unnecessary risk (David couldn't remember if every door had a trigger or not), so she climbs through the vent right above it. It's dirtier and far less comfortable than just walking out into the hallway, but she's soon glad for that choice. She can hear the same combat boots from before, the same calm pace of the lazy security guard. People who don't do their jobs well make Kate's job way easier, but a guard would have to be too terrible to catch a hooded teenager sneaking around this place after midnight and not ring the alarm.

Kate stays still until the sounds fade away, and only then does she start crawling again. It only takes her a few seconds to find another open vent and drop down on the hallway. Her boots echo a little on the floor, but it doesn't sound like anyone is coming her way. Kate is quick to look for cameras.

She finds one, but is surprised to see the wires sticking out and the lens cracked. 'Come on, you're making millions off your criminal empire and can't fix a vandalized cam?' she thinks. Few things annoy her more than amoral criminals, and negligent criminals are definitely in that list.

She unzips her hoodie just enough to reach inside and find the paper stuck in her bra. It cracks when she unfolds it, but her panicked 'Shhh!' is way louder than any noise a piece of paper could make. She knows shushing an inanimate object is pretty damn pointless, but she can’t help herself.

The blueprint that Tommy stole for her shows the mainframe is on this floor ('Score!') and the only security to face should be an electronic lock. She's no genius, but she's got friends who are. The new app on her phone (another one of David’s designs) should be able to crack the passcode.

She mutters a little mantra as she makes her way down the hall and around a corner, praying for the app to work and no unexpected guards to get in her way. She's got no moral issue with futzing up bad guys, but most guards in these kinda places are nothing more than private security, most of them with kids and families waiting for them after a long night of work. Kate's a thief, not an asshole.

"Don't let me futz this up, don't let me fu... what the hell?" her whisper isn't so low when she sees the keypad. The LCD screen is sparking and whirring, useless after being ripped out of the wall. The door to the mainframe room is wide open.

Instead of doing the smart thing (which would be, y'know, bolting), she steps into the room.

She's only a few steps in, reaching for her bow and trying to see anything in the blue-ish light of the screens, when she finds herself with a crossbow pointing right between her eyebrows. A man in uniform, with too-loose shoulders and blond scruff over his jaw is frowning at her.

"What are you? Like, twelve?" he asks. Kate elbows the crossbow out of his hand, then elbows him on the nose. He stumbles back but bounces right back up, grinning. "Thirteen?" the man asks, words slurred through the blood now flowing from his nose, before kicking her in the shins. Kate stumbles back, but regains her footing quick enough. She tries to punch him on the face but he grabs her wrist and twists her arm. Kate grits her teeth and curses, bearing the pain just long enough to land a knee in the dude's crotch. He lets go of her arm with a string of swears.

"Asshole," she mutters, kicks him on the abdomen. He falls against the wall, which isn't actually a wall. The hit obviously futzes up with some of the hard-drives, and one of the screens changes its resting image to a red warning. Somewhere, not far away, an alarm starts to blare.

"Hey, girly, you're futzing up my job here;" the man grunts, getting back up with way less of a struggle than Kate would’ve expected. She reaches for her bow and has an arrow set before he can completely regain his balance, though.

"You're the one getting in the way, old man. And now you've alerted security, idiot!" she yells. The alarm has already gone off, anyways; she can be as loud as she wants.

Kate should probably just shoot an arrow into the dude's arm, grab the hard-drives she needs and get out before she gets caught. The guy smiles at her. She smiles back, and notices that the bandanna has slipped from her face and is hanging around her neck.

"The personnel are tied up inside a closet in the next building. It'll be a few minutes before their central realizes it and sends someone else, a couple more before they make it here," he shrugs, still smiling. He looks almost proud of himself, as if some girl half his age and half his size hadn't just kicked his ass. Kate rolls her eyes.

"Keep those hands where I can see them," she threatens, tensing the string just a little to remark her words. Then, Kate steps carefully towards the duffel bag lying on the floor, keeping her arrow trained on the man all the time. She moves it around with her foot, but finds it empty. Kate looks at the dude, frowning.

"What were you looking for?" she asks, vaguely aware that this isn't a good time for conversation. He shrugs.

"Got hired to get some virus in their mainframe," he answers. He doesn't seem to care too much. Kate cocks her head, squints. Yeah, he definitely doesn't seem like the type to care for anything else than the pay.

"Will they know if I take a little information before you wreck the hard-drives?" she asks. She doesn't see any reason to ruin someone's job when that job is ruining the same people she's trying to ruin. The dude shrugs again. "Good. Stay still."

She obviously stops being a threat as soon as she puts down the arrow to plug a portable drive into one of the ports, but the guy doesn't move. He doesn't even lower his hands. Kate would tell him 'good boy,' but she'd rather keep the other criminal on her side. She's going to have to face some pretty heavy private security in a few minutes, as it is. She's going to be grateful for whatever blessings come her way.

"Alright, alright," she mutters, unplugs the drive and quickly saves it inside her bra. She really needs to stop carrying stuff in her cleavage at some point, because it keeps making dumbass dudes stare at her chest. This one dumbass dude is mildly amused but quick to avert his gaze. Kate points her arrow at him anyways.

"Look, I'm gonna get out of here, then you can do whatever you gotta do," she says. She's getting better at this 'bullshitting her way out of messed up situations' thing, because the guy does look like he's taking her orders seriously.

"Alright." She makes her way out of the room walking backwards, the arrowhead always carefully fixated on the man's left eye. He waves goodbye just before she breaks eye contact with him.


	2. First Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited 29/03/2015

Clint hates these jobs. First of all, he despises suits. Second, he strongly dislikes socialization. Third, he can't carry anything but knives or guns in these clothes. He hates guns as much as he hates these jobs.

The music doesn't seem terrible (he can't wear his aid out here, where it might draw attention. So, he's mostly hearing the dull thud of the drums and watching people dance. The music doesn't seem terrible). The shirt's too-stiff collar is driving him crazy and the expensive cologne is making his nose itch, but he won't have to stay here for long. He only needs to locate Schmidt, and he can start moving.

There is a man in a bright red dress suit and white sneakers whose confidence Clint envies. An old woman wearing so many feathers that he'd expect her to actually fly away at any moment. A couple of twins wearing identical yellow dresses and identical sulky pouts. A young woman in a dark, purple dress that reveals her back, where Clint can see a tattoo that looks like a target.

It takes him a second to realize that the woman is standing right next to Schmidt. The man is tall and lanky, with a relaxed posture and a dark suit that doesn't draw attention to him. He's obviously trying to look as friendly as possible, smiling at his guest. The woman seems to be telling an anecdote, laughing and moving her hands around and leaning against Schmidt's arm for just a second. Clint sees the exact moment Schmidt's phone disappears into the woman's purse. He curses.

Keeping a low profile and running through the gala's crowd are not two things that can be easily combined. He walks as fast as humanly possibly; smiles and mutters polite ‘sorry’s and ‘excuse me’s as he pushes people out of his way, but it's no use. By the time he reaches Schmidt's side, the woman in purple is gone. Along with the phone, which he needs to get into Schmidt's private office. He considers just calling Nat and telling her that the job's been blown, but he doesn't like admitting defeat. At least, not to her.

He thinks on the merits of having your ex as your best friend as he scans the crowd, but neither that line of thought, nor his search for the thief, are fruitful.

What are the chances of the woman in purple being just a regular pickpocket, though? What are the chances of him stumbling upon another criminal trying to break into the same place as him twice in a week, though? Both are equally improbable, really. Clint's just not sure which one would be best for him. He dodges one of the bodyguards walking around the room, sneaks around a corner, hopes he's remembering the mansion's map correctly.

He's just reaching the second floor when he sees a dash of purple out of the corner of his eye. She's just turning a corner, long black hair whipping behind her before she disappears from Clint's sight again.

"Please, let this one be a bad fighter," he mutters, and follows as fast and quietly as possible.

He's still got a bruise on his side from his encounter with the little thief not one week ago, and he definitely doesn't want this woman to kick him in heels. Now that he thinks of it, he's probably gonna get his ass kicked. Not that he's bad at physical combat per-se, but the universe seems to take him having one nasty bruise as a signal to give him more.

He doesn't hear anything, and he blames both his shitty hearing and the stupid carpeted floor for it. He looks back, expecting to have already a couple bodyguards creeping up on him, but the corridor is empty. No one seems to be following, so that's something.

If he remembers the layout of the building correctly (and if the woman is headed for Schmidt's office too, that is), the thief's probably just after the turn. He reaches the end of the hallway at a slower pace, trying not to make any noise, stays close to the wall and peeks around the corner.

First thing Clint notices is that she's barefoot. The shoes are hanging by the straps from her purse, and her hair is now held in a ponytail. Even from a distance, he can easily appreciate her biceps. And yes, chances are Clint is gonna get his ass kicked.

The surprise factor is out the window as soon as he turns the corner completely. She steps away from the door and drops the stolen phone quickly; raises her fists and plants her feet more firmly on the floor. Clint wonders if he might be cursed.

"[You're] not security," she says, though. Clint can see her relax a little, and doesn't really get why. Security are wearing black suits just like his, and he's sure he can pass easily for a bodyguard. She's grinning now. "[Didn't… beat?] you up [last?] Friday?"

"Aw, really?"

Really. She’d sounded like a child and the baggy clothes didn't make any justice to her figure, but he remembers the cheeky grin and the sharp eyes, and they are definitely the same. He doesn't get a chance to dwell on his bad luck any further, though, because a black stiletto is flying towards his face just a second later.

He ducks in time, the heel barely brushing the top of his head, and lunges forward. She is just about to throw the other shoe when his shoulder hits her chest, and her punches are futile when Clint tackles her into the floor. They stumble to the floor together, but Clint can't take hold of her. She lands ready to kick back, kneels Clint right on the bruise in his torso and jumps up while he's still trying to get to his knees.

The girl (woman?) kicks his side and stabs him between his shoulder blades with her other shoe before he can fully get up, and Clint barely manages to roll to the side before getting kicked again. He wonders when he got so old. He stumbles to a standing position, but the girl's kick to his stomach sends him tumbling against the door.

That's not bad, actually. Clint pushes himself off the door and throws a punch that will probably leave the girl's jaw bruised for days. Her little cocky smile disappears from her face, and Clint's elbow strains when he catches her calf mid-kick. She tries to pull away, but he takes hold of her ankle with his other hand and twists. Hard. The girl curses even as she rolls with the twist, still trying to free herself and not to lose her balance.

"Dude," she calls, and Clint doesn't really understand why she goes limp. He follows the direction of her gaze, though, and finds an answer very soon. The answer being that they are kind of screwed. "Dude," the girl repeats, louder, and Clint lets go of her ankle, not looking away from the electronic lock. Maybe, if he keeps on glaring at it, the small screen will stop showing the 'SECURITY BREACH' alert and let him complete his job without any further difficulties.

She says something, but it's barely a whisper and Clint doesn't understand any of it. "What?" he asks, looking at her. "Someone's […]! [Can't?] you hear them?" she repeats, a little louder. He can't, but that's not the point. The point is that they're screwed.

"Okay, what other exit do we have?" he asks. The girl shakes her head. Right. All the exits are just the same way the security guards are surely coming from, he remembers the blueprints. "Can you tell how many people are coming?"

"Six? Seven?" She cringes, then moves past him and unplugs the phone from the lock. "[…] unarmed?"

In the short seconds that she takes to grab her shoes and slip into them again, Clint wonders what are his chances of taking out six dudes without his bow or any other weapon than a pair of shoes. Not many, really. He can finally hear the approaching noises of the guards, which means they're probably about to turn the corner.

"Are you unarmed?" She repeats. She's probably trying to seem calm and collected, but the tension in her neck and shoulder betrays her. Clint nods. "Good," she says.

The girl is stepping closer and Clint should probably cover himself for the imminent blow, but he doesn't. He watches curiously as she raises her eyebrows and mouths 'go with it'; lets himself be pushed a bit too hard against the door.

The girl's strong hands press firmly against his shoulder and he can barely guess the approaching security guards out of the corner of his eye before she kisses him.

Clint can almost feel the way his brain splits into two; the Tactical side telling him to keep his guard up while the rest of his mind short-circuits. He's not sure of which side tells him to put his hands around the girl's waist and kiss her deeper, but it definitely makes the kiss seems more realistic.

He can feel her fingers dragging across his scalp and her tongue running against his teeth before someone grabs the girl by the shoulder and pulls her away. A very uncomfortable-looking guard looks them up and down while the rest of them stand back. Clint thinks he does a great job of looking flustered and confused right then. The girl giggles and blushes.

"Excuse me, miss, mister. Are you aware that this is a restricted area?" The guard asks, sounding as serious as one can sound when finding two people with their clothes obviously out of place, their hair everywhere and their mouths on each other.

The girl looks bashful when she says "We were […] looking [for?] more private [restroom]," and one of the guards behind them covers his snort with a cough.

Clint signs an apology, looking as guilty as possible, and the guard talking to them raises his eyebrows. He calls for one of the women in his team, who signs about the same that the first dude just said, and explains that their weight triggered the door's security system. "We're very sorry," he says, and signs along. She smiles.

"Let us escort you back to the dance floor," the man says, obviously annoyed. Clint nods, and the girl leans against him. Her next apologies are said in a low tone while she faces away from Clint, and he doesn't hear most of what she says, but both the guy and the woman laugh.

"We'll make sure to call you a cab, miss, we don't want our champagne to be to blame for any accident," the man says, and the woman translates for Clint with a grin on her lips.

The security guards escort them back to the first floor, most smiling when the girl slides a hand in Clint's back pocket; and a waitress jokes with the girl while they wait for their cab. She says her goodbyes to the personnel looking just the right amount of embarrassed and amused, Clint just looks deeply uncomfortable when he signs a goodbye for the guard that speaks ASL. When they get in the car, the girl gives directions that Clint doesn't manage to hear.

"So," he mutters, sitting straighter as soon as they're out of Schmidt Manor. The girl looks at him, then at the rolled-up partition, then bursts out laughing.


	3. First Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited 29/03/2015

Kate hands her fake ID to the bartender easily, confident in her attire. She's got a thousand-bucks Vera Wang dress and enough make-up on that nobody would think of questioning her age. Well, nobody except for this dude. This futzing dude.

"You're not twenty five," he comments once the bartender is far from them. Kate huffs.

"What, are you gonna tell?" She says, talking just a little bit louder and vocalizing just a tad clearer than usual. "I'm twenty-one in five months, and I have more than earned my right to drink whatever I please," she says. He smiles. She still doesn't know his name but she does know that he's only looking at her mouth to read her lips. It's still unnerving.

"So, how did your night end?" the guy asks, smiling at the bar, avoiding her eyes. Kate shrugs.

"Decent. Didn't get caught," she answers, as nonchalantly as possible. She's got a slash on her upper thigh from the wires on top of the outer walls; and maybe her ego's slightly wounded by the suggestion that she looks thirteen; but she got all the information she needed and even got like six hours of sleep, so she’s counting it as a successful job.

They won't make any money off it, though. All of that was just meant to be leaked to the Internet, maybe sold to some news channel for a couple hundreds. Today's job, though, today was meant to ensure her a couple months of food and cover, maybe even fancy new clothes and new arrows, too. She really needed that money.

Kate sighs in defeat and accepts the glass thankfully when the bartender approaches them. He seems to be equally glad to finally have his beer, so none of them can judge. They drink in silence for a minute.

"They're gonna put better security," Kate grumbles, playing with the olive in her glass. The dude looks at her, and she's not sure if he heard her or not. "You completely ruined my game, they're gonna upgrade the security around the stupid diamonds and I'm not gonna make rent," she continues, this time keeping the glass away from her mouth. She wants to make sure that he knows she's pissed off.

"Diamonds?" he asks, and his lower lip brushes against the bottle's rim. Kate totally isn't looking. She nods, then drinks as much of her martini as she can while holding on to a minimum of dignity. "I wasn't told about any diamonds. I was hired to get some files," he comments. He's smiling, just a little.

"Is this some kind of indecent proposal, old man?" she jokes, and he chuckles at that.

"I would much rather have you helping me that kicking my ass, girly-girl." Kate supposes she should be offended at the name, but he did admit that she kicked his ass, so she's gonna let it slide. She keeps playing with the olive for a minute, considering her options.

"You're kind of a shitty thief, though. Why would I want you helping me?" she asks. His smile isn't as bright then, but Kate's sense of practicality outweighs her delicacy.

"I had a bad accident, I'm still getting back on my feet," he admits, and he doesn't look at her lips but neither holds her gaze. "But I'm good. One of the best, according to some other people," he shrugs then, and his tone is just the right amount of self-deprecating. "I'm not sure if I'd trust their judgment, but they keep on hiring me, so..." He tilts his head, makes a little noise in the back of his throat that Kate can’t really interpret.

"This is only our first date, though," Kate says, her voice serious. She’d probably be better off calling one of her usual associates for backup, instead of putting her job and her freedom in the hands of a dude whose name she doesn’t know. Because, really, who would trust a thief?

The guy grins at her and signs as he talks. "I'll go unarmed, you bring that bow of yours."

She considers it. Actually, though it’s not the safest move, she really likes the idea. She can ditch him and make a run for it if they get caught, and since Tommy and Eli left, she's been missing working with other people.

"We should probably go get ourselves a pair of burner phones. And an alias to call the other by, too." He nods, says, “I usually go by…” Kate throws the olive at the dude's face when he says, right over her words, that his alias is 'Hawkeye'.


	4. First Sleepover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a while of not writing anything at all, I'm on a mission to finish all my fic projects. So expect updates in this verse very soon.

Clint's had a couple bad ideas in his life, sure. Some pretty terrible ones, too. Like the one that put him in a coma for a couple months, or that time he married a con artist. He committed a couple stupid crimes and some, even stupider, acts of altruism. Like this.

"What [on Earth?] would make you think [stealing] from the Russian mob […] good idea, Hawkeye?"

He wants to argue. To defend himself. Say that he didn't mean to start a fight, that it was just a recon, that he wasn't stealing. But he's not as good as a liar as he used to be and she knows him too well already anyways, so he doesn't argue. He just shrugs, scratches the dog behind his ear.

"I was pissed off," he mutters. He can’t hear her sigh, but sees the fall of her shoulders, the movement of her chest.

"We're [not] good guys, Clint. […] not your crusade," she says, and she looks too world-weary, too tired for her age. Clint gets it. He didn't get to be a teenager, really. He didn't get to spend his twenties in idealism and shallowness, and she won't either. He wishes he could change it.

"It's nobody's crusade, Kate. There's nobody willing to take down the mobs, not in the way it needs to be done. The cops aren't trying hard enough. The feds aren't digging deep enough. And they aren't killing each other fast enough."

He keeps shaking his head as he speaks, keeps scratching the dogs behind the ear even as his free hand twitches against the table. Kate draws her hand back quickly, looking at the bruise she just touched with her mouth in a tight line. Clint wants to smooth the line between her brows with his thumb. He doesn’t.

"We're no Robin futzing Hood," Kate insists. She leans her tiny, calloused hand against his wrist until Clint stills. "[Come on], I'll make [coffee] and we can […] care of those wounds."

The dog whines a little when Clint stops scratching him, but Kate shushes him and he just nuzzles the couch, shifts a little and falls asleep. Clint is glad the sedatives are working on the poor animal (wishes he could take some). Kate drags him into the kitchen.

They've been working together for a while now, though they've only learned each other's names a week and a half ago. Clint thinks it might be too soon to let her know where he lives, but whatever. They're already here, and she's already shuffling through his cupboard for coffee and strong alcoholic beverages.

"Wish I […] smoke [right?] now," Kate comments as she turns the coffeemaker on. Clint raises his eyebrows in her direction. "What? […] all [social] smokers, and I might […] killed tonight. I can allow myself a Marlboro Light, [right]?"

Clint smiles. He would laugh, really, but his head is pounding and he might have a broken rib and the tourniquet in his arm will loosen if he moves abruptly, so he just smiles. Climbing to sit on the counter makes him feel like his torso will split in half, but he gets to lean his back against the wall, so that’s something.

"I have Parliaments in the second drawer, behind the knives. They haven't been touched in a couple months, but I'm sure they're still decent."

Kate cleans his wound with the unlit cigarette between her teeth. It looks like she's biting on it as she sews the skin closed, and she tries to take a drag uselessly more than once. She moves to brush her hair out of her face with a latex-gloved hand, but seems to notice the blood mid-way and stops.

"Here," Clint mutters as he leans over. He takes hold of the offending hair strand and hooks it behind her ear, winces just a little when he straightens back up and it feels like his rib is poking at his insides. Kate hands him the bottle of vodka that she used to clean the wound just a minute ago, Clint accepts it gratefully, though it makes him feel even dizzier than he was already.

“[…] concussion,” Kate barely mutters, and he catches it only because she turns her head back towards him in the last word. He shrugs. “’M staying,” she says, this time looking him in the eye.

“Not your crusade, Katie-Kate,” Clint says, and Kate scowls at the nickname, but just holds his eye until Clint sighs and nods. He knows that there is no use arguing with her, it’s one of the few things Clint really knows about her.

He doesn't know her last name, her address or her motives; doesn't know if anything she's ever told him about her person is even near truthful. But he does knows Kate's stubborn as hell. Trusting her is a hastily calculated bet at best, another bad decision in a long string at worst.

He removes his hearing aid and leaves it over a box of cereal, closes his eyes. He guesses that, if Kate were to stab him while he’s not looking, she’s had a dozen opportunities just as good as this one in the last two days alone.

The bitter smell of tobacco smoke floods the room and Clint guesses that Kate’s grown tired of fidgeting with the unlit cigarette. He hates the way the smell covers everything else and doesn’t quite fade away for hours, and can’t remember why he keeps them (maybe it was Tony who left them, maybe he got them for Jess and never got around to giving them to her). He makes a weak attempt at remembering, but it makes his head pulse.

Kate nudges his shoulder, says something that Clint doesn’t catch. Her hair is over her face and the light right over her shoulder, and for a moment all Clint can see of her is the tense line of her mouth and the white of her eyes. “Don’t [pass] out on me,” she says, and offers him a mug. Clint had completely forgotten about her intent to make coffee, and he’s glad she hasn’t. He takes his hand to his chin and makes a forward motion, mutters “thanks, Katie.”

She spends the night by the window, crossbow ready by her right hand and a second, third, fourth coffee always at her left. Occasionally, she turns and asks something. “What’s the sign for run?” she asks, and spends an entire minute doing silly motions with her fingers till she gets it right. She doesn’t get his explanation on how to sign ‘cover my back’, mostly because a movement outside pulls her attention away from Clint.

“Just a cat,” she says, reassuringly, while she climbs back in from the firescape, but Clint’s passed out on the counter. She sets an alarm to wake him up in an hour.


	5. First Time Meeting The Family

Kate can’t remember the last time she’s slept. She knows it must have been sometime before Saturday, but it couldn’t have been more than four or five hours. She’s not even sure of how the hell she’s still standing upright, much less aiming and firing. Her average is ten out ten, but she’s missing a good half of her shots now. She ducks behind a couch, and pulls her phone out of her bra. She writes a text as quick as she can, sends it and tucks the phone back in place (if she’s lucky, it might just stop the next bullet aimed at her chest). A bullet flies right over her head, and Kate knows she’s only got a few seconds before she has to get on the move again. 

She releases the empty magazine and drops it to the floor, pulls a new one out of her jacket’s inner pocket and pushes it into place with a too-loud click. She hates gun with a passion, but the shattered remains of her bow are lying somewhere by the Mansion’s pool and she’s got to get out of here one way or the other. 

Kate takes a deep breath, and makes a run for it. She feels the bullets whistling past her, but even her current five out of ten score beats these morons’ shitty aim. Only when she haves to slow her race across the room to push a door open do they manage to aim a little better, and a bullet slashes her jacket’s sleeve and leaves a bloody trail on her upper arm before getting stuck in the heavy mahogany door.

Kate closes the door behind her, pushes every piece of furniture she can find to block it and only then does she allow herself to let out a much deserved string of curses. She’s seriously reconsidering her stance regarding murder right now. 

A vibration against her sternum interrupts her. She’s got a text (and thank God or whatever preexisting power for her phone service’s excellent signal), and it’s a text from Clint. “20 minutes. Your friend said that an ‘America’ is coming with us. Hold on.” The previous message in the chatlog has way less vowels and a lot more emojis. “SOS abt 2 gt murdered @ bishop inc ask dvid 2 track me his # is on my fridge”, followed by a string of panicked yellow faces, was Kate’s original text. She’s glad that they’ve moved on from the whole burner-phone-stage, because her burner didn’t have emojis. 

The hallway she’s currently in isn’t nearly as spacious or ostentatious as the conference room Kate’s just left, and she knows that could play against her. She hurries her pace, looking out for cameras in the way, but her vision is blurry and the corridor is barely lit. They know where she is anyways, and if she doesn’t get some backup soon, she’s as good as dead.

She finds an emergency exit that leads to some stairs, and the door probably has some kind of alarm, but it’s as good a choice as any. There is actual light here, white fluorescent lamps that make her head hurt and she stumbles a little on her way down. She’s hungry, too, hungry and thirsty and so tired that she can’t even feel the wound on her arm.

The first gunshot startles her when she’s starting to run low on adrenaline, and it feels like a slap to the face. The bullet misses her by less than an inch, and Kate can still feel the ghost tingling of its path right against the top of her head as she starts running faster. She doesn’t bother looking up, trying to catch sight of her shooter. She doesn’t feel very confident with a handgun on a good day, and doesn’t trust herself to be able to aim at all right now. 

A bullet leaves a hole on the wall, barely missing her, and Kate would kill for some really dark, really bitter coffees. She mutters a curse, jumps three steps on a row. She holds the gun close to her chest, hunching her shoulders as she reaches the turn of the stairs. She doesn't turn, though, runs straight into the wall and kicks up against the white paint. She hasn't tried this flip in a long while, and she can feel the brush of the upper bar of banister against the back of her head, but she makes it.

She curls into herself, trying to make of her body as difficult a target as possible. She turns in the air, hears another shot, unfolds her free arm to reach for the banister. She almost misses it, fails to grab on the first bar and takes hold of the one below instead. The pull at the wound on her arm hurts so much that she almost misses the feeling of a bullet penetrating the back of her thigh. She bites on her tongue, draws blood. 

She can feel the stupid phone vibrating against her chest as she swings herself to fall on the flight of stairs below. She lands with a grunt, stumbles down a couple of steps before she's able to regain her footing. 

The shooter can't see her now, though. She leans against the wall, panting, and pulls out her phone. America's middle finger lights up her screen, and she wants to smile as she picks up the call. 

"We're inside, where are you?" America sounds pissed off and out of breath, as if she'd just fought half of the security personnel all by herself. She probably did. 

"On a staircase, I think," Kate looks around, finds a sign along one of the service doors. "7th floor, West side. I don't know if I can walk."

"Hold on, Katie-Kate," she hears Clint saying, further from the speaker, just as agitated. The call ends before she can say anything.

There are steps running down, closer. It's just one person, just the shooter, but Kate doesn't think she can take them. She can't put any weight on her right leg without wanting to cry, and her arm is bleeding more than before. She makes it to the turn, her back against the service door, and holds the gun ready.

She knows she should shoot as soon as she has a target, looks up at the opposite side of the staircase and aims at where she guesses the shooter will first be visible. The steps are closer, no more than two flights up, but she's hiding in a corner and hoping the shooter isn't as good as she is. 

Her phone vibrates again, but she can't get distracted now. Not even if her vision is blurring again, not even if she can hear the shooter’s steps slowing down. Then, she hears something else. She hears laughter. Ringing, high, clear like a bell and  _ evil  _ like a movie supervillain’s. Kinda sexy, though.

“Come on, Katie, you know I won’t shoot to kill. I like you.”

Kate wants to talk back, curse and scream and tell this asshole to go f… She shakes her head, bites her lips. She’s only going to make her position clearer. The gun feels super heavy on her hands, and the phone is vibrating again, and the shooter speaks again.

“Though we’ve never been formally introduced. My name is Whitney Frost.” The steps are still closing in, slower and more careful and almost masked by the sound of her voice, but Kate can hear it. She knows she’s fucked, but she can’t, for the love of god, think of a single possible way out. The stupid phone is still vibrating and, hell, she’s dead anyways. She picks up.

"Why don't you try robbing Fort Knox next time?" America yells into the mic and into Kate's ear. There is noise on the other side; thuds and grunts and the occasional curse. Kate wants to laugh, but stifles it, sue that she'd die from pain doing so. "Also, your dad sucks ass." 

Kate does laugh. She'd swear that one of her left ribs is broken, and she can hear Whitney rushing down again, but she laughs. America is laughing too, on the other end of the line. 

"Your boyfriend ran off to get you," she says, and before Kate can fall in the childish 'not my boyfriend!' that wants to burst, she adds "We'll catch up soon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not really invested in these two anymore, so this is the end of this antology. Hope y'all enjoyed it.


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